All this wincing,
and weezing,
tires my inspiration.
I see,
then I plan to do,
but when I do,
I fall on my back,
struggling to jump up.
So many colorful pictures stain my mind.
To use that final stroke,
and paint a lush serene,
is the equivelant to the elderly,
taking their last breath.
My heart putters
to a begrudging stand still,
until the inspiration dies.
Come back.
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